


Benedict Island

by eag



Series: Voyage of the Muntjac [4]
Category: The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Death, Fillory, Gen, High King and Greatest Swordsman in all of Fillory with benefits, Loss, M/M, Magic, Mentor/Protégé, Other, Quests, Swordfighting, The Doldrums, Unrequited Love, Voyage of the Muntjac
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-13
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-21 00:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2448416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not again. I must go where I can do no further harm.”  Bingle, <i>The Magician King</i></p><p>Bingle pays a high price for his magic sword.  Spoilers for <i>The Magician King</i>.</p><p>Part of a series, but can be read by itself without missing very much, if so inclined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bingle was glad for the crimson tunic; he could tell from experience that he was soaked to the elbows with blood, but the long-sleeved tunic didn't show any sign of it, other than that it was damp. 

Soaked with blood, soaked with sweat. None of it was his blood, or else he might be concerned. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, and wasn't sure how much sweat he was actually wiping away or if he was actually smearing his face with blood. He was sure it didn't look good; he'd probably have to wash before getting back aboard, so as not to distress the others.

It had been a good battle; he hadn't had the particular pleasure of fighting for his life for a long time. Friendly sparring with Benedict was one thing, but the thrill of danger, real danger just beyond the point of his sword was something that Bingle never quite lost a taste for. In a way he was glad; it seemed as if it had been too long since he had had an evening out that was so enjoyable. The way things were headed, it seemed like these kinds of adventures were going to be fewer and farther between. Best to enjoy it while it lasted.

He wiped the blade against the leg of his trousers, more by habitual instinct than by need; the magic blade seemed to repel all foreign substances, needing no polishing, sharpening, or any other form of maintenance. It looked as much as it must have the day it came from the forge of whatever master magician-swordsmith had created it, pristine and gorgeous, white silvery light glowing along the wavy grain of the steel, as if it had a tiny eddying sea of light that lapped along the shores of its central groove.

Sometimes he wondered how someone could have forgotten such a blade. He wouldn't have. Unbreakable, ever-sharp...it was one of the most beautiful weapons that he had ever held in his hands. 

The price hadn't been too high either.

Pleased with himself, he let the others go ahead as he rooted out hidden foes. It was obvious that the magicians didn't need him. Even Quentin, who had originally hired him as a bodyguard had done some things in the castle that left Bingle cold; he had seen Quentin in action from a distance and was secretly glad he hadn't been at the magician king's side. He was fond of the risk of a battle, but it was something else entirely when one opponent was pure, unmatchable Force, and the others were mere mortals.

Something caught his eye. There, on the ground, a tiny gold coin; he picked it up and pocketed it. Never knew when something like that might come in handy. It drew his eye to the edge of a tapestry that shivered, and he jerked it aside, sword at the ready. But it was just a slip of a girl, hiding in the niche of a window that the tapestry concealed, a servant by the looks of her clothes, and she shrieked when he revealed her hiding place, tears in her eyes.

Bingle gestured with his sword, and it made her flinch, so he sheathed it and gestured again with his free hand.

“Go. Leave this place,” he added for good measure, and the girl ran off, her footsteps padding softly in the darkness of the ruined castle.

The look of fear in her eyes was unmistakeable. She thought he was going to...

Bingle shook his head, shaking away bad memories that threatened his good mood. He was done here. It was time to go back to the ship.

He let go of the dusty tapestry, and it swung in the empty room, back and forth like a pendulum until it swung to a stop.

*****

He stopped by a fountain tucked in a tiny courtyard to wash his hands and face. Blood seeped into the water as he washed, and when it ran clear again, he drank thirstily, greedily, big mouthfuls that were almost too much, so that drops dripped off the edge of his lower lip.

There wasn't much he could do for the tunic. He'd change when he was aboard, and dump it with the rest of the dirty clothes into the pile. There was always someone who cleaned the clothes. Even he had to take a turn in the rotation, though they usually let him off most of the harder, mindless work, leaving him only to fold dry clothing or hang up damp things on those sunny days on deck when clothes were cleaned.

The warm, wet wind shifted direction as he stood at the fountain, and he could smell the rain before it began, fat drops that pattered on the dusty ground, loosely at first and then a downpour. He smiled; it felt good on his hair and face, cooling. He wiped his hands on his trousers and headed back to the ship. The wet, slippery wood of the pier had large dark patches on it, like shadows seeping into the wood, but he paid it no mind. He made his way up the gangplank; there was a small crowd formed around the deck, people craning their necks to look at something. He wondered what it was, and moved forward.

Eliot grabbed him just before he could continue, pulling him aside. 

“Bingle, there's been an accident-” and just then, Bingle looked past his shoulder without meaning to and saw the edge of Benedict's cloak, twisted up in a knot of blue wool by his elbow.

“Benedict...?” Bingle pushed his way past the others roughly, frantic, and there was Benedict, laid out on the ground, an arrow through his throat. Quentin's long, nimble fingers were fumbling at the boy's face; he was trying to shut the boy's eyes.

Bingle felt the hard wood of the deck against his knees before he knew it was there.

 

He had been too long away. The boy was dead, very dead. He no longer had the soft warmth of the early hours of death, that sense that the body was merely asleep, playing at death as if a macabre game played by children. There was no more softness, no more warmth to the flesh. Benedict was already cold, long cold, his flesh hardening as the others spoke in soft murmuring tones around him.

The rain came down, and Bingle set to work. No one else could draw the arrow, but he knew what he had to do. With his bare hands, he snapped the tough flexible shaft in one try, without hesitation. No reason to memorize the pattern of the fletching and kill whoever had killed Benedict; Julia had done that about an hour ago, dispatching an archer with the same fletching by throwing him through a wall, snapping his neck and smashing his skull. No point in revenge when it had already been taken, purely by chance and circumstance.

An arrow iron-barbed like this one was could only come out in one direction. He pulled Benedict partially upright, balancing the boy's lax body against his own. He winced as he pushed the splintered arrow through the unfeeling flesh, piercing through muscle and tendon and then skin on the other side of Benedict's neck so he could draw it out. He did it quickly, without thinking so he could actually do it, letting his mind be as cold as Benedict's skin was.

“I told you to stay aboard,” Bingle muttered, but he couldn't be mad at Benedict, couldn't fault the boy. It wasn't Benedict's fault. It was his.

Blood flecked his hands. Benedict's blood. He drew the boy's heavy, unresponsive body close, stroking the soft stubble of black hair that had grown out over the last few days. He remembered standing by while Mato shaved Benedict's hair, listening to the two joke around while his own thoughts were on something else entirely. He wished he could remember what they were talking about.

Bingle kissed the boy's unfeeling lips. He had never dared when Benedict was alive, and now it was too late.

Eliot gently drew him aside, away from the body. The kings and the heavyset man from the other world picked up Benedict and took him inside to the infirmary, to lay out and prepare his body.

Bingle stayed where he was, rain soaking him through. Wherever he walked, he left drips of blood on the wooden deck that the rain washed away. It was not his own.


	2. Chapter 2

They were in the dead place for almost an entire day before they knew where they were. Whatever Eliot liked to call it, for example the Doldrums, or the Sargasso Sea, Bingle thought privately that it should be known as the dead place, where nothing thrived and everything existed in a miserable stasis.

Eliot stood on deck surveying the sailors' work. The sun beat down on them; it was hot, and there was no wind to speak of. The Admiral had called for the light sail; Couble, the first mate came over and opened a black-painted storage chest on deck. Inside, he folded back a packet made of black cloth, before pulling out the light sail reverently. It seemed almost alive in his hands, and a handful of other sailors came over to help him unfold it and set it up. They worked quickly and soon had it rigged in place.

It fluttered, filling out with sunlight and straining, trying its best, but the ship still didn't move.

“What's the matter?” Eliot asked, looking up, shielding his eyes. “Shouldn't we be going by now?”

“We should.” The Admiral looked around thoughtfully. 

“We're not caught on something, are we?”

“No. Just a little undercurrent, but it's not strong. It shouldn't be strong enough to stall the light sail.” Admiral Lacker pointed it out to Eliot. “Counterclockwise, with respect to our position.” The sea was smooth, but Eliot could see the faintest hint of motion in the distance. He squinted; was it just him or was there something out on the water?

“All right. Well, there's nothing we can do about now. Order water rationing, just to be safe. Give out the word.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The Admiral went down to consult with the crew.

As they set up the sail, Bingle came over; he had been lounging on the prow in the triangular shade of one of the leading sails like a sleepy cat in the sun. Someone in the crew had lent him a set of unmarked tropical whites and talked him into wearing them like the other members of the crew; it made his olive skin and dark brown hair seem even darker by contrast. He wore the naval uniform well, though he somehow managed to wear it in such a way that it didn't look much like a uniform on him, merely a sharply tailored outfit in white that accentuated his slender frame. Eliot found it amusing that the outfit made Bingle look like a European gentleman on vacation in the tropics.

“Your Majesty,” Bingle bowed.

“Something up, Bing?”

“There's something on the horizon. I'm certain the lookout would have said something, but...”

“But he's busy. Right. I saw something too. There must be something out there.” Eliot glanced over; whatever it was, it was closer now; that undertow must be just strong enough to slowly drag them over. “How far do you think it is?”

Bingle shrugged. “Not too far, if you mean to row.”

“I certainly mean to row. Though to be more precise, I mean to have someone else row.” Eliot leaned over the railing of the poop deck, calling out the command: “Ready the launch.”

Within the hour they were heading out toward the unmistakeable smudge of darkness in the distance. The _Muntjac_ followed behind slowly, dragged by the current, like a friendly leashed beast. While they could have waited for the ship to move over on its own accord, it was much more fun this way.

Eliot dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief; he was not one for tropical whites, but he had made some sartorial concessions on account of the weather, changing into a billowy white silk shirt and a pair of pale doeskin breeches, forgoing his coat and cloak for a silver-embroidered waistcoat, tailored neatly to nip around his slender waist. It was a shame his boots covered up his stockinged calves, but there had to be some concessions to the practical. He shaded his eyes with his hand and silently wished for sunglasses. 

As the launch sliced through the glassy water, he could see in the distance the dark shapes resolving into what appeared to be houses. As they drew closer, things began to float alongside the launch. A painted wooden toy duck, grand dining tables, lost articles of clothing, a tiny glass slipper, a huge bucket full of canes, empty corked bottles with notes in them...all sorts of detritus and belongings, floating and bumping in a vast eddy around them, like the contents of a massive flea market tipped over into the ocean.

“Bing. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?”

“If what you're seeing is houses and people, then yes, I am seeing those things too.” 

They were rowing into a small town that circulated slowly around some unknown central vortex, a strangely empty stretch of dark water. Just below the surface, amid tall stands of seaweed, he could see other houses, more and more of them. Some looked like model homes from condominium developments, others woven grass shacks. There were cottages, sod-roofed clay houses looked like they had been dug out of the side of a hill and deposited on the pile of flotsam, adobe houses, Tudor-style mansions, even something that looked like a modern Brutalist concrete block building. And so many were stacked in the water, one above the other, that it was impossible to tell how far down it went, and how everything still managed to rotate slightly despite being stacked.

Eliot stared down at a submerged, underwater window as the boat rowed slowly past it and flinched when a child's face flashed before it. It smiled beatifically at him before disappearing into the darkness. 

“Jesus Christ...” He shook his head. This place was giving him the creeps.

He wasn't the only one. Bingle had drawn his sword, well, his sharp fencing foil; his other sword had been snapped in the fight with the giant lobster. He had turned down the offer of Quentin's sword, saying that he could make do with what he had; he knew how much Quentin's sword meant to Eliot.

“What now, Your Majesty?” The first mate wiped at his face with his sleeve; he and the other sailors that had been rowing were sweat-drenched.

“Get us closer to that.” Eliot pointed at a fairy-tale castle with delicate spires and towers wedged neatly between what looked like a stack of converted shipping containers and a multistory stone cottage. Though it compared to Whitespire it was a small castle, it was still a bigger building by half than anything around it. He expected that if this place had a leader, that would be the residence of choice.

“Aye aye.” Couble turned the tiller through the still, warm water as the others rowed, and they began to pass through the center of the makeshift town. Around them, people looked out their windows at them curiously. When Eliot made a gesture, such as to wave hello, they darted back into their dwellings, disappearing from view.

There was a little pier in front of the castle; it had been made from discarded tavern signs lashed together. Bingle was first out of the launch; his boots treading on a metal sign that looked like a serpent made out of silvery tin, sooty from years of wear. Eliot followed, taking Bingle's offered hand.

Couble moored the launch, tying it to a wooden piling.

“So we're gonna stay with the boat, Your Majesty. With all due respect.” He bowed a little, more like a hunching of his shoulders, and the others did the same. It was obvious that they were uncomfortable at the prospect of being here.

“Very well. Guard the boat.”

They walked into the castle. It swayed a little, not as much as the floating castle they had seen on the open ocean, but just faintly, as if it were the upper floor of a high rise that shifted a little with the wind and the motion of the elevators moving through its heart.

“Knock, knock,” Eliot quipped as they walked into yet another empty room, and Bingle quirked him a half-smile.

“No one home.” They wandered around a little. Inside it was clean, ready to live in. He could just about imagine the realtor trying to sell it to him. In his imagination, she had a blonde bob and wore a neat little business suit: “7 bedrooms, 6 and a half baths, a reception hall, a ballroom, a library, fully-equipped kitchen, and a fireplace in every room. It has everything an up-and-coming duke or king or even emperor might want in a seaside vacation home. How big is it? Oh, 15,000 square feet, including the dungeon, Your Majesty. That's fully-equipped too, with all the latest in torture tech. You'll want to see that next. This is a quaint and cozy castle, boasting full ocean views on almost all sides with an easy commute to the other side of the flotsam pile. Don't mind the neighbors, Your Most Excellent Majesty, they're just a bunch of harmless crazies stranded in the middle of the ocean. You'll get used to them before you know it. Oh no, of course they won't try to murder you in your sleep. We practically haven't had a murder-murder-murder-murder-suicide here in almost three days! Now let's get to business and talk about the price. It's absolutely a steal. Why, it's practically free!”

“I don't like the feel of this place,” Bingle admitted, as he looked around. The tip of his sword wavered nervously, and Bingle's nerves made Eliot feel uncomfortable. The swordsman had good instincts. “I'm concerned that this could be a trap. We should return to the ship and leave this place entirely.”

“Good idea. Let's get out of here.” Just then, they walked into a room that in a more typical castle, might have been something like a private chapel, with pews and an altar draped in white. But instead of religious trappings, instead of chalices and golden reliquaries, there was a sword on the altar.

Bingle and Eliot exchanged a glance of curiosity, and then Bingle stepped forward. Before Eliot could say anything to stop him, Bingle had picked up the sword. It was sheathed in black leather, with the faintest, most delicate embroidery of silver along the scabbard that Eliot had ever seen.

Bingle handed his fencing foil to Eliot before unsheathing the sword with a whisk. They both gasped, for it glowed white, in stark contrast to the dim diffuse light coming through a nearby stained glass window. Bingle tested the balance with a few fluid motions of his arm and wrist before he nodded with approval. It moved perfectly, as if it had been made for his hand. 

“I suppose...if no one else claims it...” Eliot shrugged. “You do need a sword.”

Bingle nodded. “I do.”

“Do you think it's a trap?”

“I think it's just a sword.” Bingle took the foil back and sheathed it. Changing his sword belt configuration, he strapped the extraneous blade to his back. He then strapped on the new sword. It sat on his hip like it was meant to be there, already practically an extension of himself.

“That looks good on you,” Eliot smiled, admiring how Bingle looked, the sharp contrast of the black sword scabbard against his white clothing. 

Bingle ducked his head, almost shyly. “Thanks.”

They made their way quickly out of the castle after that, without looking back.

*****

“Tell me what's she like.” Benedict sat with his arms around his knees. He was a little irked at being left behind, but then, Bingle and Eliot had both agreed it was too dangerous and left without him. He felt like they were still babying him after that fall over the cliff. And really, what was the problem? No one even got hurt. He was still annoyed about being ordered to stay aboard, missing out on all the adventures.

So to pass the time, he and Mato sat in a patch of late afternoon shade near the helm, chatting. Earlier, Benedict had climbed halfway up the main mast and done a quick sketch of the the nearby flotsam, noting even the uneven row of doll's clothes that hung dripping off a line strung between two tiny rowboats manned by children. Mato had met him halfway, climbing down from the crow's nest, and then they had retreated to a shady spot up near the stern. There wasn't much to do on board other than laundry and some other minor chores, but neither were on duty.

“Tall. Not very tall, mind you. Still shorter than me but tall for a girl, which I like. Long legs, golden hair, green eyes...” Mato sighed wistfully. “She's a fisherman's daughter that lives down the road from my family's home. I've known her since we were both little bits, barely this big. Except she grew into a beauty and I grew into me,” Mato cracked a crooked grin that was short a couple teeth. It was about the only defect the sailor had, as far as Benedict was concerned, but the man was self-conscious about it.

“Do you think she'd wait for you?”

“Of course! What a thing to say. She's from a sailing family too. She knows what it's like to love a sailing man.”

“Must be hard for her.”

“Must be hard for me, you mean.” Mato punched him playfully in the bicep. “You know what it's like being away from your girl for so long? On a boat with a bunch of other men?”

“No,” Benedict admitted. “I've never had a girl. Never anyone, really. Not like that.”

“No?” Mato put his arm around him, brotherly, and gave him a friendly squeeze. “I'm sorry. That's tough.”

“I dunno; it's not bad. It's not like I have anything or anyone to miss. Besides, I'm too busy with my work for such distractions,” Benedict added primly. “I have my work to think about; I don't have time for all that nonsense.”

“That just means you work too much,” Mato teased. “You ever think maybe that's the problem? Even your master has his fun. Everyone knows what he gets up to.”

Benedict ignored the comment about Bingle. “Nah, I like what I do. Especially the swordfighting.”

“I wasn't counting that as work.”

“Sure it counts.” Benedict sat up straight to explain, gesturing as he did so. “There's the physical drills, and that's just for the body, for flexibility and strength. Then there's the footwork, which takes longer, and we still haven't touched the sword yet-”

Mato laughed. “I get it, I get it. Don't drown me in all the technicals.”

“But I like the technicals,” Benedict protested.

“So you've never been in love,” Mato changed the subject.

“No. I've never been in love. Not ever, which makes me-” Benedict said with a sigh, and then he looked up when a shadow loomed over him from behind.

“We're back,” Bingle came around, carrying his sheathed foil in his hand. “Here, I brought you a souvenir.” He tossed Benedict the foil, and Benedict caught it in a swift motion of his hand without fumbling it. “I'll have to find another one eventually, but this is yours now.”

“Really? You mean it?” Benedict clambered up onto his feet, clutching the sword with both hands. He carefully unsheathed it and turning away, rotated his wrist in a few quick parries. It sang through the air, light and balanced so beautifully that every tiny movement of his wrist was transmitted down the line of steel, nothing like the heavy practice sword. Reluctantly, he sheathed the blade; he'd have time later to really learn to work with it.

“Really. I think you're ready.” Bingle's eyes were warm with approval, and he was smiling just a little.

“What about you?”

“Don't worry about me,” Bingle patted his hip. “I found a replacement.”

“Bingle!” Benedict's eyes brightened. “Can I see?”

“Certainly.” Bingle unsheathed it with an easy motion, handing it hilt-first to Benedict. The sword glowed brightly, even in the warm glow of sunlight.

Mato whistled low. “That must be worth its weight in gold. Where do you buy something like that out in the middle of nowhere?”

Bingle shook his head. “It was abandoned.”

Benedict looked down the line of the sword in his hand. He wanted to touch the blade, just to see how it felt, to feel it was cold or hot, but he knew better; the oils from his hand would stain the steel. He did a quick little drill that Bingle had taught him, one that tested the balance. It was something past perfect, making the foil seem almost rough and awkward in contrast. Carefully he returned it to Bingle, mindful of the etiquette of the sword, and that Bingle had done him a great honor by trusting him with his weapon while he himself was unarmed.

Other sailors came around to see the commotion and in the end, Bingle spent some time showing the sword around to various members of the crew though not letting anyone handle it but himself. He was even asked by the Eliot to do a demonstration. The sword sliced through the air as he went through the longform, eyes half-closed in bliss, leaving trails of white light. He was even whisked down into the hold to show Abigail; Admiral Lacker had insisted. By the time it was over, Bingle was tired of all the attention and retreated to his quarters.

Bingle sat on his bed with the sheathed sword. He looked around at his things; two sets of neatly folded clothes, a fussily folded cloak, and a cleaning kit for his swords. Between that, the sword in his lap, the castle in Fillory he had never seen, and the two blades he had given Benedict, they were all the possessions that he had. 

He didn't think that was much of a problem. Best to travel light. Bingle retrieved his cleaning kit and unsheathed the blade.

He looked at it carefully, angling it to see if there were any flaws, and of course there were none. It glowed with a chilling purity, and he applied the oiled cloth to it almost reluctantly. But it was as if the blade repelled the oil; nothing stuck to the steel. Curiously, Bingle looked through his collection of grindstones and took out a fine-grained one, moving it lightly along the edge. Unusually, bright sparks rose as he slid it down the edge, but it didn't seem to alter the steel in any way. He tilted his head, angling the blade carefully to check and then decided to touch the blade itself. It was cool under his fingers, but as he drew his hand away, light clung to his fingertips for a moment before adhering back to the steel. He looked carefully; there were no fingerprints or marks from his hand.

Bingle smiled to himself; it seemed that the sword was untouchable. Perhaps it was even unbreakable. He was about to get a piece of paper to test the sharpness when there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” he said briskly, wondering who it was, and then the door opened and Benedict poked his head in.

“Mind if I come in?” 

“Of course not. Come. Sit,” Bingle gestured, and Benedict came and sat at the fold-out desk. Every room had one, and it seemed less weird than sitting on Bingle's bed. Benedict looked around curiously; he hadn't ever been in Bingle's room before.

“What brings you by, Benedict?”

“Um. Oh. I wanted to...that is, I don't think I should take your foil,” Benedict blushed, and unstrapped it from his waist, holding it out to Bingle with both hands. It made Bingle smile; the boy sometimes relapsed into his old shyness when they were alone.

“It's fine.” Bingle waved him off. “I'm sure I'll find another one. Besides, a foil like that isn't meant for battle but for training or sparring. Dueling at best, for sport.”

“What if your sword breaks like last time?”

“Then I'll find another,” Bingle said simply. “How many swords do you think I've had, hmm?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't either. I've gone through at least three in the last two years, maybe one or two more than that in the last five. I can't remember exactly how many I've had over the years. The first one...I treasured it dearly, but it was broken in a fight. Since then, it's not something I worry too much about; Swords come and go.”

Benedict looked surprised.

“Though I've taught you all the rules and formal etiquette, they're just tools in the end, and sometimes under hard wear, tools are broken. Sometimes they may be lost or stolen,” Bingle said simply, as he picked up a sheet of paper and folded it in half. “I've had bad ones, good ones...even a few great ones. But that's beside the point. Care to do the honors?”

“Really? You haven't done it yet?”

Bingle shook his head. “I have no idea if this sword is sharp at all.” He winked at Benedict.

Benedict came over and took the sheet of paper. Not sure what to do with himself, he sat down next to Bingle on the bed, who handed him the sword.

“Careful,” Bingle said sofly, and Benedict ran the blade across the piece of paper. It wasn't so much that the blade cut it, as it seemed more like the paper severed itself in twain in the presence of the blade. 

“Wow. Wow! What...” Benedict blinked. “That's amazing.”

“So it is.” Bingle took the sword back and sheathed it. They smiled at each other for a moment, exchanging a look of understanding, as the only ones who were witness to the power of the sword.

Benedict looked at Bingle, eyes ablaze with excitement. 

“Do you think-”

“I really want-” 

They both spoke at once, and it made them laugh, Bingle clapping Benedict's back.

“Tell me what's on your mind,” Bingle said warmly, and gave Benedict's shoulder a squeeze.

“I-” And just then, they heard someone calling out, ringing a bell; it was time for dinner. Benedict blushed. “Oh, never mind. It wasn't important.” He sprang to his feet and grabbed the foil. Quickly and efficiently, he strapped it to his hip. “Let's go.”

Bingle got up to his feet a little slower, belting on the sword with practiced ease. He blew out the lamp, and they headed together to the mess hall, shoulders companionably brushing against each other.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days after that, they had their first visitors. Up at the stern, Eliot and Admiral Lacker were having what was now turning into the daily discussion about the effectiveness of the light sail; it didn't seem to be doing any good, and neither were the regular sails. There was no hint of wind, no hint of movement on the glassy sea, other than the mysterious undertow that dragged everything ever so slowly toward an empty central gyre.

“Call for anchor,” Eliot finally said, “I don't want us getting dragged anywhere near that mess.” Just as the Admiral gave the orders, someone up in the crow's nest called out that they were being intercepted.

Eliot went over to the side, and Bingle handed him the spyglass. He gave a look; it was two people, rowing what appeared to be an upturned circular dining table, paddling it through the water. It spun almost dizzily as they cut through the sea, water sloshing over their bare feet as they went along.

“No one on or off-board,” Eliot said grimly. He didn't know what kind of people lived in that town, and given a preference, he preferred not to know. 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Admiral called out orders. There was a quick commotion on deck as sailors came to peer over the sides at the interlopers. Bingle's sword-hand wandered over to the hilt of his sword. The mismatched rowers drew ever closer. Bingle looked down.

“Not much of an interception.” While his expression wasn't pure contempt, he didn't seem particularly troubled. His sword-hand relaxed.

“No, but I'd prefer it if they stayed away. I'd rather not have us be mobbed by a bunch of people looking for a ride out. We can't afford taking on passengers,” Eliot frowned. “We're just not equipped or supplied for it.”

“Then perhaps the guns should be manned,” Bingle suggested.

“Overkill. I just want them to stay away from the ship, and that's not hard to accomplish if they can't climb up the sides. So we'll leave it at this and see what they want.”

As the unlikely duo came closer, they hailed the ship. Eliot sighed; he supposed he would have to deal with this himself entirely, but just then the Admiral stepped to the railing and asked them their business. Eliot glanced over; it was two women, one tall and strapping, with broad shoulders and a previously broken nose, the other skinny and slouching. When the bigger one rowed, their makeshift craft spun; the smaller woman still managed to hold her own though, and they made forward movement, albeit slowly. Once they stopped rowing, they still spun weakly with the remnants of their momentum.

“We come in peace and mean no harm,” The taller woman said, her voice resonant with command, “We've come to give you the Law.”

The Admiral glanced at Eliot, and then looked gravely down at the two. “Very well, tell us what you mean to say and then go on your way.”

“We are the Forgotten; those who have in life been...” The smaller woman began, in a shrill, high-pitched voice.

“Prepared set piece,” Eliot muttered. “I don't know who they're trying to impress.”

It went on for a while. Most of the sailors lost interest and wandered off. Benedict was sitting by the helm casually taking notes in a small notebook, and the Admiral continued to nod gravely, as if every word that was being uttered was of utmost importance.

Eventually, the two women left, without ever mentioning the possibility of coming aboard.

“That was surprisingly bloodless,” Eliot yawned. “Boring as hell though.” 

“It had the sound of something I heard as a boy,” Admiral Lacker said slowly, thoughtfully. “Something about the cadence. I can't place it.”

“I suppose that's why they're the Forgotten,” Eliot said dryly. “Now, my takeaway is that they're not keen on people taking things from this mess. I can't imagine why; it's not like they're lacking in things...” He looked down, at the floating mess of stuff: a painting of a farmer, a wooden doll with bleached blonde hair, a wicker basket with a few pieces of coal in it, a clay pot with geometric patterns...it was an endless parade of crap and about half the floating stuff didn't even make sense because it shouldn't have been floating. Eliot was pretty sure at one point he had seen an anvil go by.

“I doubt it can be enforced,” Bingle said, patting the sword lightly.

“They can try,” Eliot shrugged. “You might have to figure something out.”

“I'm not concerned,” Bingle said simply. He looked at the women as they rowed away, an ungainly lumpy wake following them through the glassy sea. “My mind's set on keeping this sword.”

“Suit yourself.”

*****

He woke after the first sleep of the night. Normally he stayed in bed and meditated on sword forms until he fell asleep again, or sometimes, if prearranged, he might visit Eliot. But tonight Bingle felt restless, unsettled. What the women had said, about paying for what was taken left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and contradicted with how he felt about swords; when they made it to his hand, it was meant to be. After all, a sword might have several owners in its lifetime; he had lost more than his share, almost as many as he had broken. The life of the sword was its own, separate from its owner who after all was merely borrowing it until the next person came along.

Still, that didn't mean he wanted to only borrow this sword for a few days. He imagined the kinds of adventures he could have with a sword this powerful, the kinds of duels that he could fight. The swift movement of the blade as it sliced through the air, singing with keen light. He could already feel it going through flesh, through tangled jungle vines and arrows and perhaps even shields...all sorts of adventures, just waiting below the hilt.

Bingle pulled on his trousers, buckled on the sword, and made his way up to the deck. Outside it was cooler, not as stuffy and hot as it was belowdecks, and he made his way up to the bow, seeking to catch more of the cool air away from the main body of the ship.

He looked up as he crested the stairs to the upper decks of the ship; the sky was littered with stars; the Gray Tabby, the Onion, the Pomegranate Throne...his eyes lingered on the Brave Warrior with four stars for her swordbelt and her sword at her hip. She looked slightly distorted and strangely tilted. Perhaps it was due to their position. After all, he had never been this far out of the known world.

He walked toward the bow and paused; someone was already there, curled up in the dark. He wondered who it was, and then he heard a familiar voice.

“Hi.”

“Benedict. What are you doing out here?” Bingle came over, eyes still scanning the stars.

“Too hot to sleep in my room,” Benedict yawned, shifting so Bingle could sit. “So I came here to sleep.”

Bingle sat down, leaning against the curved edge of the bow, and drew Benedict's head down so that it rested in his lap “Did it work?”

“Yeah, it's nice out here.” Benedict shifted against his leg, sighing pleasantly. “I forgot my pillow but it's okay now. You make a good pillow.”

Bingle chuckled. “Thank you. I'm pleased to be of service.”

They were quiet for a while, so quiet that Bingle thought Benedict had drifted off to sleep again, but then Benedict's voice piped up in the dark.

“Bingle? Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly.”

“The other day, I was talking with...with someone. And he was telling me about this girl he loved...I...” There was a long pause.

Bingle waited patiently, his hand resting lightly on Benedict's bare shoulder. The boy had stripped off his shirt in the heat and was lying on it to keep off the wooden deck.

“I wanted to know...what it's like to be in love.”

Bingle thought about it for a while, wondering what he could say, as a flood of old memories came back to him. 

“It's hard to explain well,” Bingle said. “And I'm sure it's different for everyone. For me, it's happened a few times, but even the last time was a long time ago. Sometimes I'm not sure if I remember it rightly.”

“Whatever you can remember...I'd appreciate it.”

“It...it's warmth. Like friendship, but something more than friendship. Not just a fondness either, something more. Fear too. I was afraid of losing them. Like something very precious that you can't quite hold in your hand, and not tightly, for fear of crushing it. And you're drawn to each other, like moths to a flame, but the flame is each other.” Bingle's voice was soft, thoughtful, almost hesitant. “There's more but...but it's hard to explain.”

“Oh.” Benedict sighed. “You know, Bingle. Sometimes...sometimes I think that maybe in my life, I wasn't meant to have those things.”

“You can't say that,” Bingle said abruptly. “You're too young to know-”

“No, listen. I mean it. I barely even had parents. From what I can figure, most people grow up with lots of love in their life. I mean, just look at you and the king-”

“You're mistaken,” Bingle interrupted. “You can't judge by surfaces. What I have there is not what you think it is.” 

“No?”

“No. More I cannot speak. He has my trust.” 

“Oh. Sorry. I thought...well, because...you know...”

“It's not like that, Benedict.” Bingle sighed. “Sometimes people have needs, and they meet them in others who have similar needs...” 

“I know about needs,” Benedict sounded a little annoyed. “I'm not completely naïve.”

Bingle stroked Benedict's shoulder, the same way he might stroke a cat. He changed the subject. “What makes you ask me about love?”

“I was just curious. Can you tell me about...about your first love?”

The words were on the tip of his tongue, 'I'd rather not,' but then, Bingle realized that that wasn't true. He didn't really mind, not if it was Benedict.

“It was a long time ago. So long ago that now it's more like the memory of a memory of being in love. She was taller than me, by almost a handspan. She had pale gray eyes and dark hair, and her eyebrows were a little crooked, so one was higher than the other, and made her seem like she always had a joke in mind. But then she always did. We were both adepts in training, in a monastery in the mountains. During that time, everyone was sworn to silence, but there was a language of hands that we all used.

“I was more skilled, and a year ahead of her, so she trained under me. I don't know how it happened, but it just did. We fell in love. Less than a year later, she died.”

“What happened?”

“It was my fault.” Bingle's voice was harsh. “I hadn't trained her as well as I could, and she died in a duel with an older adept. The attack used an unusual technique she hadn't experienced before, and she feinted in the wrong direction. The sword pierced the right lung, and she died from suffocation. It happened to a handful of students every year; I just never thought it would be her.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stir up bad memories...”

“It's fine. It was a long time ago.” Bingle's voice lost its harsh edge, and faded to thoughtfulness. The long memories of loss crept over him, and he could remember her fine lips, her flashing eyes...but never her voice. In all their time together, he had never heard it. They had never spoken to each other aloud. Not even when she lay dying, struggling for breath with her blue-tinged mouth did she ever utter a sound. She had been that serious about her training, her vows, and he had failed her.

“Perhaps, Benedict...you think that it's a bad thing to not have experienced love. But...for me...” Bingle wanted to say it, but he couldn't. That everyone he ever loved had died, and that it had been his fault every time. That his love had caused their deaths. That for years now he only withheld, and never gave of himself entirely, for fear that he would bring harm.

“They were bad experiences?”

“No, that's not it. I...I shouldn't talk like this.” Bingle pivoted off the subject as neatly as he would if he were fighting. “Tell me, I saw you after dinner practicing with the foil. Were you able to figure out the problem with the circumflex displacement?”

“Um. Almost. It's hard to get my foot in the right place. I guess it's hard to break a bad habit.”

“Which was discussed before, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Benedict still sounded amused despite the critique. “I just can't help it, that back foot doesn't want to go where I want it, at least not exactly.”

“Then keep practicing until it does.”

*****

A sound woke him, something that sounded like iron striking wood, and Bingle was immediately awake. There was a tiny moment of disorientation, before he remembered that he fell asleep at the bow.

From the position of the moon, he calculated that an hour or two had passed since he had fallen asleep. That would mean it was two or three hours before dawn. There, that sound again, iron striking wood. It was too late for the sailors to be up and working; only the nightwatchman was awake.

He heard the thud of a pair of boots on the main deck, one hobnailed, one wooden-soled. Then others, about a half-dozen total by his estimate, perhaps one or two more. They didn't have the sound of the footwear of anyone aboard.

Bingle gave Benedict a shake.

“Benedict. Up.” Bingle's voice hissed low, under his breath. Benedict was awake immediately and on his feet. “Get belowdecks. Wake Eliot. We have intruders. I'll cover you. Go.” 

Bingle unsheathed his sword with a whisk. It glowed brightly, like a white-silver flame in his hand, ready for battle. He waited until Benedict was almost at the stairs, and with a running start, Bingle leapt off the forecastle with a half-flip, landing on the main deck in the midst of the intruders. 

Seven men faced him; the nightwatchman was in an unconscious slump by the rail. So that's how they got aboard, Bingle thought to himself. Two were armed with cudgels made from table legs, one with the broken half of an oar sharpened into a spear, and the other four with swords. Two were rapiers, one was a long dagger that looked to do the job of a sword, and the last was a monster of a blade that did not look practical in any sense. Bingle brought his sword to position: apex. It was certainly a universal sign of challenge, and the intruders did not miss that. Once he had given apex, it happened fast; one of the rapiers came at him immediately, and Bingle parried him off and darted toward the taller cudgeler as he moved to intercept Benedict. Bingle sliced forward, aiming just above the man's grip so as to disarm him, to knock the cudgel from his hand The magic blade sliced neatly through the wood, leaving the man with nothing but a stump of handle.

In the distance, while his sword flashed, he could hear the thump of Benedict's footsteps down the steps, and the alarm was given.

Immediately, the ship was alive with shouting, with the pounding of feet and the sound of clattering weapons. Bingle smiled as he moved forward, letting his sword lead the way, carving out a reality with the tip of his blade that he could abide by.

It was over the second Eliot came on deck. Magical lights suddenly brightened all around the ship, making everyone blink. Annoyed at being woken, the High King had gestured dismissively, saying a few sharp words that Bingle couldn't make out. It must have been a powerful spell, because it threw most of the attackers that were still alive off-board. They landed in the water with a patter of uneven splashes.

One man had been killed; that was one of the intruders. He had caught Bingle's blade in the wrong place and bled to death. 

One man was left aboard, the one that Bingle had been fighting, but when Eliot appeared, Bingle drew back.

“Coward,” the man spat, not noticing Eliot's handiwork, and then suddenly he moved to attack, lunging toward Bingle with his long dagger. But Bingle merely stepped out of the way, sword held at a casual angle, as if he wasn't particularly concerned. He stepped back lightly, dodging another blow, twirling behind the man as he did so. He wiped and sheathed his sword as if he was done with the fight. 

Suddenly, as the man turned toward Bingle again, by some great unseen force like a massive invisible hand, the man was pinned flat to the smooth wood of the deck. Eliot strode forward; his color was high. That was not a good sign. Bingle knew that there was an unspoken rule aboard the _Muntjac_ , that one did not wake Eliot unless it was a matter of life or death, or it might cause a matter of life or death.

“I am the High King of Fillory, and I demand that you talk,” Eliot snarled, barely holding back his temper. “Now.”

The man spat again, as best he could with his cheek squashed flat against the wooden deck. “Why should I?” Bingle noticed he wore two mismatched boots, and his belt was made of strands of leather trimmings doubled over and tied in a messy knot.

Eliot's eyes narrowed, and the intangible force crushed down on the man, who gasped and flailed in a panic, looking almost like a landed fish. A moment later, Eliot let up on the pressure.

“What are you doing here?”

“We...we're sick to death of being the Forgotten! You have a ship. You can take us out of here.”

“Did you not miss the High King part?”

“Y-Your Highness?”

“That's 'Your Majesty', wretch,” Bingle interjected.

Eliot glared down at the man with icy, regal dignity. “How exactly were you and your little friends going to convince us to take you of this place out by launching a night raid?”

The man's eyes looked evasive, and Bingle shook his head.

“Your Majesty, it's obvious they meant to kill us or overpower us in our sleep.”

“Good point, Bingle.” Eliot turned his head to address the man. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I-”

“Actually, I realized that I don't really care what you have to say.' Eliot looked equal parts bored and annoyed. He gestured and said something sharp, full of brisk consonants, and the man went flying off the ship, followed a few seconds later by a distant splash. He did the same to the body, with a look of distaste.

“Clean this mess up,” Eliot pointed to the wash of blood on the main deck, and a few sailors ran over, rinsing and mopping the deck with buckets of sea water.

The nightwatchman had fortunately regained consciousness but he was groggy; he had been bludgeoned, but it had been a singular, lucky blow that hadn't harmed him direly, so Benedict and one of the sailors half-carried him to the sick bay.

Bingle stood by, patient and observant, waiting to see what Eliot wanted, and then at Eliot 's gesture, he followed.

“I see Benedict came to you.”

“Yes, he did a good job. Remind me to commend him later, when I'm not half-dead from exhaustion.” Eliot looked wan, paler than usual in the glow of the magical lights. 

“Yes, Your Majesty. You ought to rest.”

Eliot shrugged it off. Instead of heading below deck, he came to the side of the ship, looking over the railing at the black water below. He found two makeshift grappling hooks clinging to the rail.

“This must have been what woke me,” Bingle unhooked the grapples with a twist of his wrist and tossed them into the sea below. He heard a clatter; it must have hit whatever vessel the men had taken to the ship. Probably more tables, Bingle thought.

“You sleep like a cat. How did you manage to hear that?”

“I was on deck,” Bingle shrugged. “Fell asleep up at the bow. Too hot in my room.”

“Then we're lucky to be alive. All right, wards from now on. No one leaves the ship. I should have done this earlier.”

“We couldn't have known.”

“I'm responsible for the ship and the men, and now someone's been hurt...” Eliot shook his head. “I should have thought of this before. I'm going up to the forecastle to get this set up. I'd like you to come and keep watch.”

“You know you needn't ask.”

Bingle followed Eliot. He spent the rest of the night on guard duty, watching Eliot build a great casting, one that would hold all elements of the ship and protect it from intruders. It was always thrilling to watch him work, even when Bingle was stifling yawns; everyone still up on deck was.

By dawn, Eliot was finished. Bingle helped him down below deck; Eliot was so exhausted he could barely walk straight.

In the king's cabin, he helped Eliot to bed, and then Eliot grabbed him by his shoulder. 

“Stay.”

“Of course, Eliot.” He unbuckled his sword and undressed, a simple affair since he was already stripped to the waist. Eliot dragged him down onto the bed and closing his eyes, fell asleep almost immediately against Bingle's shoulder. Bingle gingerly shifted, making himself comfortable. Eliot was dead asleep and didn't stir.

It took longer for Bingle to fall asleep, but he eventually did, stroking Eliot's fair hair.

*****

At the end of the seventh day, in the glowing red sunset light that tinged everything in pinks, the _Muntjac_ sprouted oars. At first, no one noticed, but then there was sound like the soft groaning of wood. Quickly, sailors went to work all over the ship, trying to find the cause of the sound.

Eliot strode on deck, looking around. On a whim, he looked over the side of the ship, wondering if it was coming from the outside of the hull, when he saw little wooden nubs, forming on the sides of the ship, like sprouting buds on a vine. 

“Admiral Lacker,” he waved the Admiral over. “Did you know the ship could do this?”

They watched, transfixed, and were soon joined by the others. The buds of wood swelled and lengthened, and soon they were close enough to almost touch the water, but they strained, as if unable to quite touch it.

“Oh, damn.” Eliot shook his head. “I almost forgot.” He stood back and began to unravel his spells, quickly unweaving the layers of wards to free the ship. Immediately after the wards dissipated, the lengthened buds grew in a burst, as if the pause had briefly pent up their potential energy, and they dipped into the water with a coordinated splash that went around the whole ship.

There was a long pause, where everyone seemed to be holding their breaths in anticipation, and then suddenly there was a deep sound of wood creaking, as if something was trying to turn. The ship was trying to move.

“Anchor!” Admiral Lacker shouted, and the shout was passed on as men went quickly to work, freeing the ship from its mooring.

As the ship sensed its freedom, the rowing began, first slowly and hesitantly, with oars moving here and there out of synchronization, as if it was not quite sure how to get the motions right. But then, it suddenly began to move, the oars slowly gaining synchronicity.

A cheer went around from all the men. Even Eliot was cheering, reaching over the railing to pat the side of the ship firmly with an open hand, the way a man might pet a dog or a horse. “Good girl! Good girl; you've saved our lives!”

The ship turned away from the slow gyre of the Doldrums the glassy sea around it and began to leave. Soon, it was disappearing rapidly behind them as the ship built momentum. But then, just before they were out of range, it suddenly began to slow down, gliding through the water.

“Oh, come on...” Eliot patted the _Muntjac_ again as if to encourage the ship along. “Don't slow down, not now. We're almost-”

There was a shudder that went through the entire ship, and suddenly it began to tilt, very gently. The prow began to lift, and then the aft went up too. Eliot frowned; in the dark water, there was something even darker, and it was lifting their ship bodily out of the water.

He ran toward the forecastle. Looking over the prow, he could see a pair of unblinking giant googly eyes looking up at him from a great slick, black expanse of body. The edges of the beast rippled in the water, its fins breaking the fine glassy surface of the sea.

It was a Questing Beast. Having never seen the name of the beast in print before, Eliot had never been fully sure if it was the Holy Halibut or the Wholly Halibut, but whatever the case, it was right before his very eyes.

“High King Eliot,” it greeted him with a deep, sonorous voice that shuddered through the entire ship. Its eyes had a very serious, almost baleful look despite their comically crossed placement.

Eliot nodded politely, a concession of respect given their respective ranks. “What seems to be the matter? We were just on our way...” Awkwardly, he felt like he was talking to a highway patrol officer after being caught speeding. 

“The Law must be kept,” the fish's crooked mouth moved, stirring up the water in a great bubbling froth.

“Excuse me?”

“'One shall take and one shall leave.' It is the law. I don't make up these things, but I am charged with enforcing them,” the Halibut said, almost apologetically.

“Ah. Almost forgot.” Eliot looked over at Bingle.

“It's the sword,” Bingle stepped forward. “I will negotiate the terms myself.” Without a warning, he swung himself over the edge of the railing, and down onto the body of the fish. The ship was wedged neatly into a dip between its pectoral fin and the plate of its gills, and Bingle tumbled as he hit the surface, dissipating the momentum of the fall. He was on his feet in a flash, dripping from the thin sheet of water between the fish and the air, but he slid part-way down the slippery, mucous-laden side of the fish before regaining his footing.

Everyone watched as he trudged over to the fish's head and stood between its eyes.

“I have the power to negotiate on behalf of the sea,” the Halibut said to him, and Bingle was grateful that the beast had lowered its voice; they could not be heard by the others. “What are you willing to trade?”

“I don't know what the appropriate price is. Tell me what is being asked.”

“I was told to first ask for your left hand. After all, you don't use it as much as your right.”

“I can't give that away.”

“Then your toes. All of them.”

“No. But I have a castle I can trade, and the lands around it.”

“It does you no good here. It must be something you carry with you. Rules are rules. What about your hearing and your ears? One eye? You can choose which one.”

“No.” 

“Then you must return the sword to its rightful place. Put it in my mouth and I'll take it back,” the Halibut said hopefully. A line of jagged, spear-like teeth appeared as it opened its mouth, water spilling out, and Bingle wondered if he'd leave with his life if he returned the sword. It didn't seem likely.

“I don't think so.” Bingle's hand strayed to the sword.

“That's a powerful sword, but you can't kill me. I am immortal,” the Hailibut said, as if reading his mind. “And if you want to fight...well, you see I hold the lives of all your friends on my side.” It moved, flexing its muscles, and the entire ship listed dangerously.

His friends...and then Bingle remembered his conversation with Benedict.

“Wait.” The listing stopped, and the ship righted itself again. “I have something you can have.”

“Then don't keep me waiting. I may be immortal, but I haven't got all day.”

“You...” Bingle took a deep breath. “You can have my love. It's...done no one any good anyway.”

There was a long and terrible pause as the great fish seemed to consider the offer.

“It is accepted,” the Halibut slowly began to sink back into the water. “Collection will be made in 30 to 60 days.”

Bingle ran for the ship, skidding over the fish's slippery body but managing to stay on his feet. Someone aboard threw down a rope, and launching himself off the sinking Halibut with a great leap, Bingle caught it, twirling it around his arm and left leg for support as he was hauled aboard.

“What did you trade?” Eliot asked, as they set off again, the _Muntjac_ 's oars dipping and stroking through unmoving sea. There was no sign of the great fish; it had disappeared back into the depths from whence it came.

“Nothing I won't miss,” Bingle shrugged. He looked for the sunset; the sun was already gone, and with it the light of day began to seep away from the world.

“Cryptic.” Eliot seemed to want to say something else, but then he just smiled a crooked smile. “I suppose it's none of my business. Anyhow, I don't think anyone could possibly miss you. You stink like fish,” Eliot wrinkled his nose. “See about getting cleaned up.”

Bingle bowed. “Of course, Your Majesty.” He headed off to wash and change; a sailor helped him haul up a few buckets of salt water, and he spent some time scrubbing off the last traces of his adventure with warm seawater and a lump of coarse soap.


	4. Chapter 4

And here he was now. Tonight was two months to the day, and Bingle had almost forgotten about the arrangement.

But when he saw Benedict's white, bloodless face on the rainy deck, he knew immediately what he had really traded. He hadn't traded his ability to love...he had traded the life of the one he loved. The sea had given and taken in return.

Bingle never even knew exactly how he felt until it was too late and Benedict was already lost.

In the rain, he sat curled up at the bow under the shroud of a cloak. It wasn't to keep off the rain; it was far too late for that. It was to close off the world, so he could have a little solitude to himself. He pressed his forehead against the varnished wood and closed his eyes. Footsteps came and went, but he couldn't tell who they were or what they wanted, nor did he care.

Someone touched him, and he shook them off. Then he heard a voice; seemingly distant but oddly familiar.

“Bingle. Bingle...” A familiar hand closed on his shoulder again, gently guiding him up onto his feet. “Bingle...what are you talking about?”

Startled, Bingle's breath caught, and he threw back the hood of his cloak. The world was a gray wash of rain, of clouds and fog and mist. The ship was moving swiftly; water burst around them as the ship cut through the waves. Before him stood Eliot, a pale specter looming.

“What is it?"

“You were talking to yourself.” Eliot looked at him strangely, and it took Bingle a long moment to realize that Eliot was worried.

Bingle shrugged, it didn't seem to matter.

“Come on. You're soaked through.”

“No.”

“Please, Bing.”

“I am completely fine.” Bingle said it dully, mechanically, picking his words carefully. “May I see him?”

“Benedict...isn't here anymore.” Eliot's brow furrowed, and he took Bingle's shoulders in his hands, saying what he had to say very carefully, pale eyes searching. “We buried him before we cast off. That was hours ago. I tried to tell you but...you didn't hear.”

“Oh.” The word came out like a sigh, and it was like he had lost his ability to do more than just stand and breathe. Too late, too late. Always too late. He couldn't even properly say goodbye. He tried to imagine what the burial must have been like. In the rain, the water would have filled the bottom of the muddy grave...

“We found him a good place. It's a beautiful place, facing west, toward Whitespire...”

Benedict was farther and farther away from him as they spoke. Every passing minute he was another several yards away. Eventually, Benedict would be so far away, like everyone else was. Everyone else Bingle had lost.

Suddenly, Bingle remembered. “He hated that place.”

“I...didn't know.”

“He was never happy there. I think he only was ever happy here with us. And now he'll never be with us again. Where he is, he'll be lonely and unhappy again.”

“Bingle..”

“Did you know...” Once he started, it was as if he couldn't stop and the words rushed out in a torrent. “He said he had never been in love. Not once in his life. He didn't think it was for him. The joke's on both of us; I loved him and I didn't know, not until he was dead at my feet. And now he'll never knew that he was loved. He's gone, gone forever and here I remain, abiding-”

Bingle choked back a sob, and Eliot took him in his arms. Even the warmth of Eliot's embrace couldn't seep in past his chilled skin; comfort seemed a distant thing, meant for someone else.

“Oh, Bing. I'm so sorry. I didn't know.”

“I didn't either. Too late. Too bad.” Bingle pulled away, wiping at his eyes.

“Please, come to bed.”

“I must apologize, Eliot. I cannot. Not with you nor anyone else. Perhaps never again.” Bingle looked out over the wide sea. The rain had stopped and the ocean was calm and dark, and he wondered if it was like that where Benedict was now, an endless procession of rippling waves where the storm had passed. Somehow he didn't think so.

“Bingle...”

“I bring nothing but death. I always have and always will. I don't wish that upon you too.” Bingle was so tense he could feel himself tremble. “I brought this upon myself. I am sorry, but this is the real truth of who I am. I should have told you before.”

“That's ridiculous,” Eliot made to embrace Bingle again. “You're overwrought.”

“If you like, I can make you a list.” Bingle stepped away neatly, rubbing at the tears in his eyes with the heels of his palms. “All the people I've ever loved or cared for are dead.”

“It's not your fault.”

“You don't know.” Bingle looked away. “It was nice to play at happiness...”

“It wasn't merely play, and you know it. You had what you had-”

Bingle held up a hand. “He wouldn't have wanted us to fight like this.” 

“He wouldn't want you to be unhappy like this,” Eliot said softly.

“I was always like this,” Bingle's eyes grew distant. “The man he knew is a stranger to me.”

He stepped away from Eliot, leaning his elbows on the prow, looking out over the open ocean. Cold droplets of drizzle smeared against his face, and he looked out at the sky as the morning light warmed the edge of the horizon with a tinge of pink, bringing color back into the fading nighttime world.

Behind him, Eliot stood patiently, waiting.

A lone bird flew just below the clouds, and Bingle couldn't tell if it was large and far away, or small and close by. It disappeared into a bank of clouds. 

He felt drained, cold. As if he had taken his blood out and replaced it with cool seawater. As if he had taken his heart out and replaced it with gears. This was a better feeling; a deep emptiness that knew nothing, felt nothing, and wanted nothing. He could survive like this, until the end of his days.

He turned and looked up at Eliot.

“Bing. Tell me what can I do for you.”

“I want you to release me from my service.” Bingle knelt suddenly, bowing his head down. “When we've found the last key.”

“I...don't know what to say to that. What if we're not in Fillory anymore? I can't just leave you out in the middle of nowhere-” Eliot drew him back onto his feet.

“I am not meant to see Fillory again,” Bingle said simply. “Give my castle to that girl. I never wanted it anyway.”

“Bingle-”

“I came because I had nothing better to do with my life. Now, I would like to be released at the end of this quest to follow my own path.”

“I won't stop you from leaving, Bingle, when the time comes. If that's truly what you want.”

“It is.”

“Then...” Eliot looked at him thoughtfully. “I get to demand something in return, then.”

“Fine.”

“One last night with me,” Eliot said boldly. “Just to sleep.”

“Fine.” And he let Eliot take him down belowdecks, into Eliot's room.

“I don't want you to be alone on a night like this. And...” Eliot drew the drapes, shutting out the dawn light. “I don't want to be alone either. I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier. There was too much to do.”

Silently, Bingle stripped off his wet clothes, a creature of pure instinct and no thought. He held the sheathed sword in his hand for a long moment before setting it down. What a terrible thing to have wanted. Now he longed to have given it back, even if it meant his own death. In retrospect, that would not have been too high of a price to pay. Bingle looked upon the ruin of his own life, at the deaths and the broken hearts and broken promises, wishing he could trade it all away so that Benedict could live. 

“What was that?” Eliot looked up. Bingle hadn't noticed before, but Eliot's eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying too. He wondered what Eliot had been crying for.

“Nothing.” Bingle dried off with a towel and got into bed. The pleasure of lying down was so great for a moment that it almost overwhelmed him, until he remembered that where Benedict was, he would never feel anything again.

“You said something about the price-”

“I don't remember what I said.” Bingle closed his eyes. Eliot's arms were warm around him, almost hot, chasing the chill away from his body, his lips pressed against Bingle's shoulder. But it seemed that comfort was far away, no longer able to reach him where he was.

*****

Above, the stars spread out in a vast canopy, pinpricks of fiery light beyond the masts and furled sails, and Benedict raised his arm, holding his index finger and thumb apart just barely, whispering beneath his breath.

“What is it?” Bingle asked, when Benedict stopped.

“Nothing really. Sometimes...I wonder how many miles it is to the moon. I've calculated it, and it's more accurate with a sextant, but...sometimes it seems different from my previous calculations. Maybe it depends on the position. Or maybe it's something else.”

“I didn't know such a thing could be done.” Bingle stared at the crescent moon as it glided slowly across the sky. He rested his hand lightly on Benedict's head; the fuzz of his growing hair slid under his palm.

“I've read about it. I don't know if I agree with what I've read. They seem reasonable, but I've done the numbers myself.”

“Why calculate the distance?”

“Sometimes I imagine what it would take to go there. Walking. Or by horseback, for example, or by sail. I know you can't really do any of those things, but it's nice to imagine it.”

“Well, I'd prefer if you stayed here,” Bingle smiled to himself, imagining what it would be like to sail to the moon. “It would be lonely up on the moon.”

“I wouldn't mind it. I mean...it's not like I'm not used to being by myself.”

“But you have all of us to think of. Me, Mato, Eliot...”

“I guess I would miss you guys.” Benedict sighed, hugging himself.

“Ah, but we shouldn't speak like this. Not before bed.” Bingle shifted. “Tell you what, let me show you something before we sleep again.”

They got up onto their feet, leaving their rumpled blankets.

“Remember the footwork for the breve? The one that loops in on itself and has a left and right mirrored form.”

“After how long it took to learn? I don't think I could forget it. I can practically do it in my sleep.”

“Do you know where it comes from?” Bingle took Benedict's hand.

“Um...the north of Fillory?”

“Yes, but that wasn't what I meant. It came originally from dancing. Let's go.” Bingle took the lead, setting their tempo, and they glided lightly through the form in a quick, graceful, endless loop, Benedict's flashing smile lighting up the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. Work continues on other things, but I really enjoyed writing these four short stories. Currently playing around with a sequel to The Magician's Map. Check out the other ones if you're interested; they don't necessarily have to be read in order. 
> 
> Thanks to Greekhoop for suggesting this series. 
> 
> Miscellany: Swordfighting terminology comes from a mix of actual fencing terms and terms for diacritical marks, a play on the line, "What is written with a sword..." The Holy Halibut is a tautological name. Bingle lost a set of clothes and a sword fighting the giant lobster Eliot mentions. In some cultures, white is the color of death.


End file.
